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WILLIAM  DAY  SIMONDS. 


THE  CHRIST 
OF  THE  HUMAN  HEART 

A  CHRISTMAS  GIFT-BOOK 


BY 

WILLIAM  DAY  SIMONDS 


PUBLISHED    BY   THE 

UNITY  CLUB  OF  OAKLAND,  CALIFORNIA 
PRICE  50  CENTS 


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*(DJjUju 


A  VISION  OF  JESUS 

pMETIMES  winged  imagination  —  most 
God-like  gift  possessed  by  man — carries  me 
across  oceans  and  continents,  and  back  through 
many  dark  and  dreary  centuries  until  I  stand  an 
Israelite,  worshipping  at  the  altars  of  my  people, 
I  hear  the  laws  of  Moses  learnedly  expounded  and 
in  the  stately  Sabbath  service  pay  fitting,  if  formal, 
praise  to  that  dread  Jehovah  whose  name  I  dare  not 
take  upon  my  lips. 

But  the  world  is  sad.  My  people  are  oppressed. 
We  are  looking  for  a  deliverer — one  who  in  might 
and  majesty  will  drive  the  hated  Roman  from  the 
land,  and  give  us  once  again  the  glory  of  ancient 
days.  So  life  goes  on  'twixt  fear  and  hope  until  at 
length  we  hear  the  rumor  strange,  ^'Behold  the 
Messiah,  the  Man  of  Galilee  draws  near!*  In 
imagination  wrapt  I  stand  amidst  the  multitude  of 
those  who  gaze  into  his  face  divine,  and  listen  to  the 
music  of  his  words, 

I  hear  him  call  that  distant  and  cloud-robed  God, 
worshipped  from  afar  in  synagogue  and  temple, 
HIS  Father,  and  I  am  astonished  at  his  speech.  It 
offends  me  that  a  man  should  call  God,  FATHER. 


209423 


Again  the  prophet  says  of  poor  and  outcast  men — 
these  are  my  brothers,  and  again  I  am.  offended,  for 
what  communion  hath  light  with  darkness,  knowl- 
edge with  ignorance  or  virtue  with  vice. 

But  soon  I  see  the  truth  profound  that  underlies 
this  strange  new  gospel.  If  there  be  a  God  at  all — 
who  is  the  life  of  all  that  was — and  is — and  is  to  be 
— that  God  the  father  is  of  all  mankind.  And  if  we 
all  were  born  into  this  realm  of  smiles  and  tears  by 
one  high  wisdom  and  one  strong  love,  then  are  we 
BROTHERS  to  the  last  man  of  us,  forever. 

Henceforth  the  Nazarene^s  faith  is  mine,  and 
through  the  eventful  days  I  follow  on — not  know- 
ing whither  I  am,  led — toward  Herod's  court  and 
Pilate's  cross.  I  see  the  fickle  crowds  who  hang 
upon  his  words  and  deeds  saying  in  thoughtless 
speech,  ^^This  is  a  God,''  I  see  the  growing  hatred 
of  bigotry  and  power,  before  which  flees  the  timid 
multitude  like  silly  sheep.  And  then  those  sad, 
proud  days  whereon  the  Master  fronts  alone — for 
we  were  faithless  friends — the  powers  that  seek  his 
life.  Was  there  ever  in  ^'all  the  tide  of  times,"  we 
ask,  such  dignity  in  defeat,  such  tenderness  in  mis- 
ery. Herod's  slaves  can  wring  from  him  no  syl- 
lable that  says,  ^^My  Mission  is  a  Lie.'*  Pale  and 
scarred  with  torture  stroke  he  answers  Pilate  with 
fearless  words  and  wise — ^^To  this  end  was  I  born 


and  to  this  end  am  I  come  into  the  world,  that  I 
should  bear  witness  unto  the  truth." 

Oh  God!  How  long  the  way  from  judgment 
seat  to  that  bare  rock  on  which  the  sweetest  life 
since  time  began  must  yield  its  breath  to  cruelty 
and  hate.  And  there  for  one  dark  momenfs  space 
we — who  have  loved  him,  and  by  resistless  fascina- 
tion drawn,  behold  him  suffering — fear  that  his 
faith  will  fail.  For  sadder  words  man  never  spoke, 
^'My  God,  My  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me/* 
Darkness  for  one  momenfs  space  and  then  we  know 
that  victory  is  his  and  ours.  With  cry  of  ^^finished"^ 
trial  and  of  pain,  that  Pilate  might  have  heard  in 
distant  palace,  our  Master  yielded  up  his  life, 
wholly  brave,  wholly  true,  wholly  God's  to  the  last 
death  word  that  smote  our  coward  hearts. 

And  now  I  do  announce  that  yonder,  helpless, 
nail-pierced  hand  shall  change,  at  last,  the  course 
of  centuries — writing,  above  creeds  that  bind  and 
blind — and  tyrannys  that  crush,  his  own  eternal 
verities — The  Fatherhood  of  God,  The  Brother- 
hood of  Man. 


Cf)e  C!)rts;t  of  tfie  fluman  fleart 

THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY 

Gj^IDDEN  away  in  my  well-worn  and  well-be- 
?^  loved  volume  of  Walt  Whitman,  I  find  these 
lines,  expressing  in  his  own  quaint  fashion  an  error 
in  our  modern  ways  of  thinking: 

"When  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer; 

When  the  proofs,  the  figures,  were  ranged  in  columns  before  me; 
When  I  was  shown  the  charts  and  the  diagrams,  to  add,  divide 

and  measure  them; 
When   I,   sitting,  heard  the  astronomer,  where  he  lectured  with 

much  applause  in  the  lecture-room, 
How  soon,  unaccountable,  I  became  tired  and  sick; 
Till  rising  and  gliding  out,  I  wandered  off  by  myself. 
In  the  mystical  moist  night-air,  and  from  time  to  time, 
Look'd  up  in  perfect  silence  at  the  stars." 

The  poet  gliding  out  into  the  mystical  moist 
night  air  to  escape  an  icy  intellectualism  that  he 
might  gaze  in  perfect  silence  at  the  stars  illustrates 
the  longing  we  all  experience  at  times  to  escape 
the  critical  temper  of  our  age.  We  would  fain 
leave  the  lecture-room  for  some  beautiful  temple 
of  faith  and  there  worship  in  untroubled  confi- 
dence the  God  of  our  Fathers.  As  the  astronomer 
may  deal  with  solar  distances,  with  the  motion  and 


size  of  suns  and  stars  until  he  forgets  the  beauty  of 
the  silent  heavens,  and  misses  the  grandeur  that 
awes  the  soul  of  child  and  poet,  so  we  moderns, 
who  are  nothing  if  not  critical,  in  our  critical 
blindness  are  in  grave  danger  of  losing  the  beauty 
that  streams  across  the  centuries  from  the  life  and 
work  of  the  Man  of  Nazareth,  as  conceived  in  the 
loving  imaginations  of  men. 

The  intellect  has  its  Christ,  a  changing  figure, 
a  man  of  peace  in  one  age,  a  warrior  in  the  next,  a 
creature  of  debate,  holding  uncertain  position  in 
the  Godhead,  often  the  incarnation  of  fanaticism 
and  persecution,  the  inspiration  of  theological 
subtlety,  the  mysterious,  the  unloving,  the  impos- 
sible Christ. 

Side  by  side  with  this  official  Christ  of  the 
Creeds,  the  world,  rarely  consistent  in  its  thinking 
or  loving,  has  cherished  another  ideal,  a  dear, 
brave,  tender,  struggling,  faltering,  conquering 
brother  and  teacher  to  whom  I  like  to  give  the 
gracious  title,  "The  Christ  of  the  Human  Heart." 

This  ideal  is  very  old,  in  some  of  its  phases  older 
than  Christianity  or  the  gospel  story.  When  the 
Egyptians  said  of  Osiris,  the  Christ  of  the  Nile, 
"His  heart  is  in  every  wound,"  they  were  certainly 
sensible  of  the  tenderness,  the  divine  pity  that  must 
characterize  a  saviour  of  men.     And  when  the 


ancient  Persian  worshipped  as  his  teacher  and 
leader  a  prophet  whose  greatest  word  was  ^Turity," 
he  anticipated  the  gracious  gospel  of  the  Nazarene, 
"Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart."  And  certainly 
when  the  wandering  Buddhist,  long  before  Mary 
welcomed  her  babe  in  Bethlehem,  lovingly  pic- 
tured the  birth  scene  of  Lord  Buddha,  when  the 
very  heavens  rained  flowers,  he  was  helping  to  pre- 
pare the  minds  of  men  for  the  story  of  the  peasant 
mother,  the  manger-babe,  the  singing  angels,  and 
the  far-flung  light  of  "His  star  in  the  East."  Very 
old,  then,  and  very  beautiful  this  ideal  of  man's 
aspiring  soul,  "The  Christ  of  the  Human  Heart." 
Let  us  recall  this  story — just  as  countless  men 
and  women  have  treasured  it,  and  just  as  countless 
more  will  come  to  know  and  love  it. 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  BABE 

jtREDERICK  ROBERTSON  of  Brighton 
J'  used  to  say  that  the  doctrine  and  teaching  of 
the  unstained  motherhood  of  the  Virgin  Mary  was 
the  most  valuable  contribution  of  the  Ancient 
Church  to  a  sinful  and  sensual  world.  Guarding 
our  thought  against  the  false  implication  that 
Motherhood  according  to  natural  law  may  not  also 
be  sweet,  pure,  and  holy,  we  can  but  believe  that 
this  constant  ideal  of  unstained  Motherhood  in  the 
minds  and  hearts  of  generations  of  Christian  wom- 
en has  given  to  that  holy  office  new  significance. 
The  saviours  of  men  according  to  the  ancient 
legends  have  ever  been  of  divine,  or  superior,  par- 
entage. The  gods,  or  angels,  or  godlike  men,  have 
fathered  them,  and  unsullied  maidenhood  has 
given  them  birth.  Is  there  not  here  a  poetic  fore- 
gleam  of  that  science  of  Eugenics  of  which  we 
rightly  hear  so  much  in  these  enlightened  days? 
Must  we  not  regenerate  human  life  at  its  source 
if  we  would  redeem  the  race?  Must  there  not  be 
something  godlike  in  the  one  solemn  act  wherein 
Man  in  creative  energy  is  most  like  the  God  he 
worships?  As  the  purest  waters  come  from  the 
loftiest  altitudes  where  the  kisses  of  the  sun  melt 


snows  of  dazzling  whiteness,  so  from  exalted  fath- 
erhood and  consecrated  motherhood  will  come  the 
^'crowning  race  of  human  kind." 

A  babe  so  fathered  and  so  mothered  is  rich 
though  it  be  born  in  a  stable,  and  be  counted  lowli- 
est among  the  lowly.  Well  may  the  angels  sing, 
and  the  stars  in  their  courses  rejoice  in  such  a  birth 
hour,  and  wisely  may  wise  men  come  from  afar  to 
kneel  in  such  a  presence.  The  Mother  and  the 
Babe!  Always  dear,  always  beautiful,  always 
sacred;  there  is  something  here  that  human  passion 
cannot  wholly  blight,  for  we  ever  feel  as  we  enter 
the  birth-chamber,  and  look  upon  the  new-born 
babe,  ^'Once  again,  a  creature  fresh  from  the  hand 
of  God."  And  of  the  pale  faced  mother,  "She  has 
passed  through  the  sanctuary  of  motherhood,  and 
there's  something  queenly  about  her  now,  some- 
thing divine,  for  behold,  she  is  a  mother." 

The  Mother  and  the  Babe.  Art  will  cherish  the 
picture,  and  from  age  to  age  will  retouch  it  with 
loving  patience.  Music  will  express  its  sweetest 
charm,  and  in  the  home  of  prince  and  peasant  alike, 
as  the  unceasing  wonder  of  babyhood  ennobles  life, 
fathers  and  mothers  to  the  end  of  time  will  cher- 
ish the  story  of  Mary  of  Nazareth  and  the  babe 
she  bore  in  tears  and  pain  that  the  world  might  be 
blessed  by  a  new  revelation  of  truth,  purity  and 
love. 


THE  CONSECRATED  YOUNG  MAN 

/|lp  HERE  is  a  story— best  told,  I  think,  by  Theo- 
^^  dore  Parker — that  when  Jesus  was  a  boy  of 
twelve,  he  stood  one  Sabbath-day  with  his  mother 
at  the  door  of  their  little  cottage  in  Nazareth,  and 
he  said,  "O  mother,  would  that  I  had  lived  in  the 
times  when  there  was  open  vision,  and  the  Lord 
visited  the  earth,  as  in  the  days  of  Abraham  and 
Moses.  These  are  sad  times,  mother,  which  we 
have  fallen  in." 

But  Mary  took  a  sprig  of  hyssop  out  of  the  nar- 
row wall,  and  said,  ^'Lo,  God  is  here;  and,  my  boy, 
not  less  than  on  Jacob's  Ladder  do  angels  go  up  and 
down.  It  is  spring  time  now,  and  the  voice  of  the 
turtle  is  heard  in  our  land,  and  the  blossom  of  this 
grape  vine  is  fragrant  with  God.  The  date  tree, 
the  white  rose  of  Sharon,  and  the  lily  of  the  valley, 
root  in  him.  He  is  in  your  little  garden,  not  less 
than  in  grand  Eden,  with  Adam  and  Eve." 

"Nay,  mother,"  said  Jesus,  ''God  has  left  the  soul 
of  Israel  for  their  sins,  so  Rabbi  Jonas  told  us  in 
the  synagogue  to-day.  Oh  that  I  had  lived  with 
Elias  or  Amos,  when  the  spirit  fell  on  men.  I  had 
also  been  filled  with  him." 


Then  Mary  with  gentle  earnestness  replied, 
"God  is  as  near  to  you  as  he  was  to  Abraham, 
Moses,  Amos  or  Elias.  He  speaks  to  you  as  to 
Samuel.  He  never  withdraws  from  the  soul  of 
men,  but  the  day  spring  from  on  high  comes  con- 
tinually to  the  soul  of  each.  Open  the  window,  and 
the  sun  of  righteousness  comes  in." 

And  Jesus  watched  at  evening  tide,  the  story  tells 
us,  as  the  purple  faded  out  of  the  sky,  and  the  great 
moon  passed,  pouring  out  her  white  fire,  with  a 
star  or  two  to  keep  her  company  in  heaven.  And 
when  the  moon  was  overhead  there  came  two  young 
lovers,  newly  wed,  and  as  Jesus  caught  the  joy  of 
their  love  for  one  another,  and  saw  all  the  beauty 
of  the  night,  there  came  to  his  young  heart  a  deep 
devotion,  a  holy  faith,  and  he  said,  "My  Father 
worketh  hitherto;  I  also  will  work,"  and  so  laid 
him  down  to  his  dreams,  and  slept,  preparatory  to 
the  work  which  fills  the  world. 

Whether  at  his  home  in  Nazareth — a  country 
home  of  vines  and  flowers,  of  fields  rich  in  flocks, 
and  woods  peopled  with  birds — or  in  the  temple  at 
Jerusalem,  disputing  with  the  doctors,  Jesus  first 
dimly  felt  himself  a  Godsent  man,  we  may  not  say. 
But  in  our  hearts  we  cherish  the  image  of  a  mar- 
velous boy,  like,  and  unlike,  his  fellows.  One  day 
a  merry  lad  with  others  at  the  games,  and  then  for 


OF  THE 

c      ^^ 


many  days  shy  and  solemn  with  the  far-off  look  of 
genius  in  his  eyes.  Perhaps  he  never  fully  awoke 
to  the  call  of  God  within  his  soul  until  he  listened 
to  the  stern  preaching  of  John  the  Baptist.  Per- 
haps he  never  trembled  from  head  to  foot  with  the 
divine  passion  until  the  baptismal  waters  of  the 
Jordan  closed  above  his  fair  young  brow.  But  in 
some  hour  the  soul  within  him  mastered  all  his 
being;  it  was  his  second  birth;  for  no  man  ever 
passed  to  greatness  save  through  the  gates  of  soul- 
birth.  The  men  who  move  the  world  to  finer  issues 
know  the  mystery  of  the  second  birth,  and  to  them, 
"Ye  must  be  born  again,"  is  but  the  record  of  an 
experience. 

In  that  hour  of  glad  and  solemn  awakening  Jesus 
foresaw  the  glory  and  the  agony  that  awaited  him 
in  the  path  his  feet  must  tread.  Not  in  hard,  clear 
outline,  as  men  see  objects  in  the  near  sun-glare, 
but  terribly  real,  as  men  see  ships  making  port  in 
cloud  and  storm.  And  thus  with  the  shadow  of 
coming  sorrows  falling  upon  him,  willingly,  sob- 
erly, he  consecrated  himself  to  a  great  work,^ — the 
greatest  this  poor  world  has  yet  recorded.  This 
was  the  supreme  renunciation.  And  is  there  any- 
thing upon  which  our  eyes  rest  quite  so  beautiful 
as  the  giving  of  a  noble  life  to  a  noble  cause? 


The  babe  in  mother's  arms  is  beautiful  with  the 
sweet  beauty  of  innocence.  The  bride  at  the  altar, 
with  the  glow  of  love  and  pride  upon  her  cheeks, 
is  beautiful.  The  mother  is  dowered  with  a  sacred 
beauty  as  she  cradles  within  her  arms  the  children 
of  her  love.  All  this  is  natural  beauty, — one  with 
the  loveliness  of  a  fair  landscape,  or  the  stars  above ; 
but  that  a  man,  young,  strong,  loving  life  and  joy, 
should  consecrate  himself  to  sacrificial  toil  and  suf- 
fering for  those  too  ignorant  to  know,  too  blind  to 
see,  too  deaf  to  hear,  too  stolid  to  feel ;  that  strength 
should  give  itself  to  weakness,  that  light  should 
shroud  itself  in  darkness  that  it  may  one  day  illume 
that  darkness — this  is  sublime. 

"The  most  beautiful  of  created  beings,"  said 
Victor  Hugo,  "is  the  virginal  young  man."  Yes, 
the  virginal  young  man  dedicating  himself  to  the 
service  of  the  low,  sad,  sensual,  savage  world  for 
no  reward  but  toil  leading  to  severer  toil  until  the 
Voice  that  "called"  him  speaks  again  in  welcoming 
approval,  "Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant, 
enter  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord." 

And  this  is  the  picture  men  carry  in  their  hearts 
of  the  young  man  who — until  his  thirtieth  year — 
was  known  only  as  the  Carpenter's  Son. 


THE  TEMPTED  CHRIST 

^JIp  HE  New  Testament  story  of  Jesus  is  full  of 
startling  contrasts.  A  strange  blending  of 
strength  and  weakness.  In  one  chapter,  Lord  of 
wind  and  wave ;  in  the  next,  a  homeless  wanderer 
who  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head.  Monarch  of 
disease,  yet  himself  the  helpless  victim  of  brutal 
men.  To-day  the  center  of  adoring  disciples,  to- 
morrow deserted  by  even  the  most  faithful  of  his 
followers.  Men  knelt  to  him  and  prayed  for  favors 
as  subjects  beseech  a  king.  Possibly  some  of  these 
same  men  plaited  the  crown  of  thorns  and  fash- 
ioned the  cross  on  which  he  died.  In  his  hour  of 
triumph  the  multitudes  sing  "Hallelujah";  in  his 
defeat  they  hoarsely  cry,  "Crucify  him!" 

And  the  Nazarene  in  his  inner  life  was  given  to 
mysterious  exaltations,  and  anon  to  heaviness  of 
spirit,  as  though  his  soul  was  like  the  strange  world 
through  which  he  passed.  Knowing  how  long  the 
world  had  waited  for  a  teacher  of  truth  and  a 
prophet  of  love,  the  peasant  woman's  son  could 
proudly  declare,  "Before  Abraham  was,  I  am." 
Just  as  the  wayside  flower  might  say,  "Before  the 


mountain  guarded  the  sea,  and  before  the  sea  mir- 
rored the  sun,  I  existed,  little  flower  that  I  am,  a 
vision  of  beauty  in  the  mind  of  God." 

"The  Father  and  I  are  one,"  said  the  Galilean 
teacher,  and  men  of  his  own  day  cried  "Blas- 
phemy," while  men  of  later  times  have  made  of 
his  idealistic  speech  a  hard  theology.  "One  with 
God" — this  homeless  man;  "One  with  God" — this 
hunted  heretic;  "One  with  God" — this  crucified 
Jew!  Assuredly,  for  his  was  the  mind  of  truth 
and  the  heart  of  love.  Whoever  makes  it  his  mis- 
sion to  teach  the  ignorant,  strengthen  the  weak, 
comfort  the  sorrowing,  cheer  the  despairing,  and 
save  the  lost  is  one  with  God  forevermore. 

But  again  we  hear  him  say — as  all  true  souls  have 
said  since  time  began — "I  can  of  myself  do  noth- 
ing." He  also  was  a  suppliant  at  the  common  fount 
of  blessing  and  of  power.  And  as  one  greeted  him 
with  the  salutation,  "Good  Teacher,"  he  answered 
as  all  sincere  souls  have  ever  answered,  and  ever 
must,  "Why  callest  thou  me  good?  None  is  good 
save  one,  even  God."  A  clear  vision  of  absolute 
good  renders  humble  the  whitest  soul.  Weak  of 
himself,  and  humble,  he  was  moreover  poor, — poor 
with  a  poverty  that  the  beasts  and  birds  knew  not. 
For  when  a  certain  scribe,  a  man  of  dignity  and 
power,   came   with   loud   professions   of   loyalty. 


"Master,  I  will  follow  thee  whithersoever  thou 
goest,"  Jesus  sadly  replied,  "The  foxes  have  holes, 
the  birds  of  the  heavens  have  nests;  but  the  son  of 
man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head."  "Why  Man," 
so  it  seems  he  must  have  added,  "I  am  poorer  than 
the  birds  and  the  beasts.  No  vine-clad  roof  in  all 
Palestine  is  mine;  no  hearth  however  humble.  I 
am  a  man  without  a  home." 

Why  was  Jesus  homeless?  The  land  was  full 
of  homes.  For  such  a  man  as  he  home-making 
had  been  easy.  Why  was  he  poor?  To  one  so 
endowed  the  world  brings  its  richest  gifts.  That 
homeless  poverty  was  voluntary.  It  was  a  heart- 
piercing  sacrifice  forced  upon  him  by  his  sym- 
pathy with  human  woe,  by  his  love  for  human- 
kind. And  here  we  face  true  meaning  of  that  nar- 
rative— so  often  misread — the  temptation  of  Jesus. 
The  older  theology  has  much  to  say  about  the  re- 
nunciation of  Christ,  and  his  condescension  in 
coming  to  this  sin-cursed  earth.  But  it  is  a  kind 
of  theatrical  picture  and  the  scene  is  set  in  other 
worlds  than  this.  It  does  not  move  the  heart,  or 
even  stir  the  imagination.  The  plain  story  of  the 
Testament  is  truer  than  Milton's  poetry,  or  the 
dogmas  of  the  schools. 

A  young  man,  conscious  of  power,  is  offered 
limitless  power  to  effect  all  selfish  ends,  if  he  will 


but  accept  evil  as  a  Master;  offered  all  wealth  if 
he  will  but  bend  his  knee  to  the  God  of  Mammon. 
This  on  the  one  hand — on  the  other  duty  and  the 
suffering  people.  And  do  the  words,  ^'I  have  not 
where  to  lay  my  head,  I  am  a  homeless  man,"  hint 
at  some  dearer  dream  dismissed  for  duty's  sake? 
I  do  not  know ;  but  if  I  knew  that  in  service  of  poor 
humanity  Jesus  turned  away  from  the  appealing 
eyes  of  love  with  a  sorrow  he  could  not  always  for- 
get, still  dearer  to  me  would  be  My  Brother  of  the 
Cross. 


THE  TEACHING  CHRIST 

3C^EFORE  Jesus  came  John  from  the  desert,  one 
of  those  vanishing  figures  of  history  who 
appear  for  a  moment,  and  are  gone  forever.  John, 
the  Baptist,  rude  child  of  nature,  was  a  voice 
arousing  the  slumbering  conscience  of  a  guilty 
age.  He  was  a  gleam  of  light  revealing  the  judg- 
ment. Stern,  inexorable  messenger  of  Jehovah, 
after  his  own  fashion  he  prepared  the  people  for 
the  gentleness  of  Jesus.  The  Tempest  over,  we 
long  for  the  kindly  sun,  the  song  of  sweet-voiced 
birds,  the  rich  perfume  of  the  flowers.  After  the 
storm,  peace;  Jesus  was  that  peace. 

What  of  severity  you  find  in  the  Master's  speech 
dates,  for  the  most  part,  from  the  later  months  of 
his  ministry,  when  opposition,  blind  and  brutal, 
compelled  rebuke  from  lips  of  love.  Yet  even 
here  severity  is  the  exception;  gentleness  is  ever 
more  native  to  his  mood,  and  the  earlier  sayings, 
parables,  sermons,  together  with  those  tender  words 
uttered  as  he  entered  the  silence  and  shadow  of 
death,  are  to-day  the  dearest  treasures  of  human 
thought. 


But  who  can  make  their  beauty  seen  or  their 
sweetness  felt.  Every  kind  of  difBculty  besets  one 
attempting  this  impossible  task.  Who  truly  paints  a 
sunrise,  or  reproduces  upon  canvas  the  heaven's 
deep  blue?  Who  tells  in  words  love's  sacred  story, 
or  pictures  the  joy  of  a  soul  at  one  with  God? 
Speech  fails  us  on  the  higher  ranges  of  spiritual 
experience;  we  wonder  and  are  silent. 

Another  difficulty  lies  in  the  unadorned  sym- 
plicity  of  Jesus'  sayings.  No  deftly  turned  phrases, 
no  brilliant  rhetoric, — calm,  clear,  strong;  yet  sel- 
dom striking  in  form  or  rhythm.  Here  are  words 
for  the  ages  to  ponder;  sayings  the  centuries  will 
not  exhaust.  Meditation  and  experience  alone  re- 
veal their  depth  of  meaning — meaning  never  con- 
veyed by  word  of  mouth,  but  rather  flashed  into 
the  soul  in  those  wrapt  moments  when  spirit  touches 
spirit. 

And  is  it  not  true  that  a  life-long  familiarity  with 
these  gems  of  spiritual  teaching  dulls  oftentimes 
the  edge  of  our  appreciation;  especially  that 
parrot-like  familiarity,  that  glib  acquaintance  with 
sentiments  so  far  beyond  our  childish  comprehen- 
sion that  they  remain  ever  for  us  mere  words — 
words,  words.  Like  Alpine  dwellers,  who  never  feel 
the  sublimity  of  mountains  men  cross  seas  and  con- 
tinents to  gaze  upon ;  like  the  millions  who  nightly 


behold  the  starry  heavens  with  less  of  interest  than 
is  afforded  by  some  new  device  to  light  their  dwell- 
ings,— so  we,  accustomed  from  childhood  to  Chris- 
tian teaching,  read  the  great  and  gracious  words  of 
Jesus,  unmindful  of  their  beauty  and  unblessed  by 
their  truth. 

Escaping  as  we  may  from  these  most  real  diffi- 
culties, let  us  try  to  listen,  as  did  the  men  of  old, 
to  sermons,  and  stories,  and  sayings  that  after  two 
thousand  years  still  move  the  world.  We  read  of 
Jesus  that  ^'He  opened  his  mouth  and  said 
'Blessed/  "  We  pause  at  the  word,  for  it  is  a  new 
word, — falling  from  the  lips  of  God's  messenger. 
A  strange  and  dear  word, — "Blessed."  Has  re- 
ligion then  to  do,  first  of  all,  with  blessedness,  hap- 
piness. We  knew  religion  was  restraint.  We  knew 
that  in  temptation  it  might  be  strength,  and  in  sor- 
row comfort.  But  joy,  happiness,  blessedness  each 
day,  and  every  day, — does  religion  mean  this? 
Here  evidently  is  a  new  gospel. 

"I  have  known  a  word  hang  star-Hke 

O'er  a  dreary  waste  of  years, 
And  it  only  seemed  the  brighter, 
Looked  at  through  a  mist  of  tears." 

"Blessed!"  It  is  a  star-like  word  shining  from 
the  far  heights  upon  the  accursed  and  dolorous 
ages,  that  they  may  a  little  change  their  course. 


But  who  are  blessed?  Was  there  ever  such  strange 
grouping?  The  poor  in  spirit,  the  mourners,  the 
meek,  the  merciful,  the  pure  in  heart,  the  peace- 
makers, those  that  hunger  after  righteousness,  those 
persecuted  for  truth's  sake.  Whatever  this  new- 
teaching  may  be,  it  certainly  is  not  the  philosophy 
of  the  world — the  cold,  hard  world  of  two  thous- 
and years  ago. 

"Resist  not  evil,"  "Love  your  enemies,"  "Do 
good  to  those  that  hate  you,"  "Pray  for  those  who 
despitefully  use  you," — ^words  like  these  may  lie 
cold  upon  the  page,  but  they  are  dear  as  the  light 
of  morning  when  translated  into  conduct.  And 
is  it  not  true, — absolutely,  scientifically  demon- 
strated,— that  we  move  toward  a  higher  civiliza- 
tion as  we  learn  to  lay  aside  weapons  of  violence? 
Even  in  our  treatment  of  the  insane  and  the  crim- 
inal we  have  learned  at  last — at  last — that  in  gentle 
patience  is  both  safety  and  healing. 

Very  strange  to  the  old  world,  and  altogether 
foolish,  was  the  tenderness  of  Jesus  toward  the 
outcast  and  the  sinful.  "He  eateth  with  sinners," 
was  the  deliberate  and  sincere  condemnation  of  the 
best  society.  His  answer  was  the  answer  of  genius 
touched  with  divinity:  "They  that  are  whole  need 
not  a  physician,  but  they  that  are  sick."  When 
Jesus  said,  "I  am  come  to  seek  and  to  save  the  lost," 


he  gave  the  true  motive  of  every  genuine  reform. 
^'Conscience  is  born  of  love,"  and  progress  is  the 
child  of  that  masterful  tenderness  which  unceas- 
ingly seeks  to  save  the  lost.  What  unfathomed 
depths  of  pity  in  the  cry,  "I  have  compassion  on 
the  multitude."  Cold-hearted  aristocracy  does  not 
say,  "the  multitude" ;  it  says  "  the  mob."  And  if  one 
speaks  kindly  of  the  burdened  masses  it  is  charged, 
''He  panders  to  the  mob."  "Be  it  so,"  said  Hugo, 
"if  anything  is  great  that  is  great."  "Sacrifice  to 
the  mob,  to  that  unfortunate,  disinherited,  van- 
quished, vagabond,  shoeless,  famished,  repudiated, 
despairing  mob;  sacrifice  to  it,  if  it  must  be  and 
when  it  must  be,  thy  repose,  thy  fortune,  thy  joy, 
thy  country,  thy  liberty,  thy  life.  The  mob  is  the 
human  race  in  misery.  The  mob  is  the  mournful 
beginning  of  the  people." 

With  open  arms  and  loving  heart  Jesus  said  to 
the  great,  burdened,  sorrowing  multitude,  to  those 
who  knew  "the  inherent  and  appalling  sadness  of 
existence,"  "Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labor  and  are 
heavy  laden  and  I  will  give  you  rest."  These 
words  are  deathless.  Their  truth  and  beauty  make 
them  so.  The  sad  heart  of  the  world  is  ever  up- 
held by  this  calm  faith  of  the  Nazarene,  that  the 
infinite  God  is  "our  Father,"  and  that  man,  way- 
ward and  sinning,  is  still  "our  Brother."    The  soul 


attains  serenity,  and  society  safety,  as  men  enter 
through  this  gate  of  blessing,  ^'the  boundless  dawn 
of  Jesus  Christ." 

^And  there  is  no  other  way.  Like  the  despairing 
agnostic,  I  have  seen  the  sun  shine  out  of  an  empty 
heaven  to  light  up  a  soulless  earth.  For  the  great, 
glaring  sun  was  only  a  ball  of  fire,  and  my  poor 
little  earth  was  scarred  with  graves.  I  have  seen 
night  come,  not  to  bring  rest  and  peace,  but  only 
deeper  anguish.  I  have  heard  the  birds  gaily 
singing  when  the  song  mocked  my  grief,  and  even 
beautiful  flowers  were  but  gaudy  decorations  of 
the  tomb,  hiding  my  loved  and  lost.  I  have  heard 
the  voices  of  my  friends  sounding  dim  and  distant 
as  from  the  far  shores  of  another  world.  And 
then  I  have  felt  the  frightful  solitude  of  the  faith- 
less soul,  the  unspeakable  desolation  of  all  who 
know  not  God  as  the  loving  Father,  who  cannot  turn 
to  man  as  the  sympathizing  Brother.  This,  the 
very  heart  of  our  faith,  and  the  source  of  all  com- 
fort, we  owe — above  all  others — to  him  who  said, 
**Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy 
laden  and  I  will  give  you  rest."    ^'^ 

But  we  might  lay  aside  all  this  wealth  of  gentle 
and  merciful  teaching,  and  if  there  were  left  us 
the  Master's  story  of  the  Sinful  Woman,  the  story 
of  the  Prodigal  Son,  and  the  Good  Samaritan, — 


by  virtue  of  these  alone  we  might  claim  that  Jesus 
was  the  world's  divinest  teacher. 

Stupid  men  of  learning,  and  self-appointed 
guardians  of  other  men's  morals,  have  stumbled 
and  questioned  as  they  have  read  the  words  of 
Jesus  to  the  woman  taken  in  adultery, — ^'Neither 
do  I  condemn  thee,  go  and  sin  no  more."  They 
have  felt  relieved  that  some  of  the  oldest  manu- 
scripts of  the  New  Testament  do  not  contain  this 
story.  Law  and  order  must  be  maintained,  and 
would  Jesus  send  from  his  presence  a  woman 
breaking  one  of  the  great  fundamental  laws  of 
society  with  so  little  of  rebuke?  Yes,  Jesus  would. 
Perhaps  you  and  I  would  not,  and  could  not.  Per- 
haps this  woman — like  thousands  of  her  class — - 
was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.  She  might 
have  been — as  Robert  Burns  once  wrote  of  an  un- 
fortunate, "A  poor  plucked  pigeon, — one  who 
closed  her  eyes  in  misery  and  opened  them  without 
hope." 

Whatever  the  circumstances  the  one  great  fact 
is  this — that  in  the  face  of  the  gravest  crime  Jesus 
held  to  his  own  teaching.  He  would  not  resist  evil 
with  evil,  adultery  with  stoning.  He  was  wiser 
than  to  attempt  to  cure  vice  with  cruelty.  And 
slowly — after  ages  of  burnings  and  brandings  and 
torture — we  moderns,  most  enlightened  of  men,  are 


just  beginning  to  learn  that  it  is  indeed  folly  to 
dream  of  converting  the  criminal  by  cruelty,  or  to 
imagine  that  we  can  protect  society  by  severity  of 
punishment.  The  only  antidote  for  evil  is  good; 
the  only  cure  for  cruelty  is  kindness;  the  only  rem- 
edy for  lust  is  love.  Here  again  the  Master  is 
right,  though  the  world  doubts  and  denies. 

And  the  Good  Samaritan.  This  beautiful  story 
is  like  a  mountain  lake,  from  whose  pure  and 
pellucid  depths  the  far-spreading  valley  is  watered. 
There  is  verdure  and  life  in  the  valley  because  of 
the  lake,  hidden  in  the  hills.  So  along  the  devious 
path  of  man,  since  Jesus  lived,  a  great,  broad  stream 
of  brotherhood  has  been  flowing  ever  on,  and  men 
bathing  in  its  waters  have  forgotten  race  and  class 
hatreds,  and  have  remembered  that  they  were 
brothers.  Who  is  my  neighbor?  The  man  of  my 
race?  The  man  of  my  clan  or  class?  The  man  of 
like  aptitudes  and  sympathies?  The  man  not  of  my 
race,  not  of  my  class,  especially  the  poor  and  dis- 
tressed man, — he  is  my  neighbor.  I  forget  him 
at  my  own  peril.  Science  is  warning  us  with  all 
the  solemnity  and  earnestness  that  befits  the  pro- 
mulgation of  saving  truth,  not  to  forget  the  solidar- 
ity of  humanity.  The  human  race  is  one  race, — one 
human  family  from  the  savant  to  the  savage.  Black 
and  brown,  white  and  yellow,  man  and  woman, — 


we  rise  or  fall  together.  We  are  neighbors  and 
brothers  to  the  last  sad  and  sinning  man  of  us,  now 
and  forever.  What  science  teaches  in  the  twentieth 
century,  the  Man  of  Galilee  taught  in  the  first,  and 
with  surpassing  beauty  and  clearness.  Not  then  in 
lip-homage  do  we  call  him — Master. 

As  I  write  these  lines  I  try  to  think  of  the  almost 
numberless  congregations  who  have  listened  to  the 
Story  of  the  Prodigal  Son.  Men  of  Europe  and 
America,  of  Asia  and  Africa,  and  the  Islands  of 
the  Sea;  men  of  the  first  century,  the  twentieth,  and 
all  the  centuries  between ;  men  learned  and  ignor- 
ant, civilized  and  savage,  —  wherever  the  New 
Testament  has  gone,  men  have  been  charmed  and 
blessed  by  that  divinest  portrayal  of  the  nature  and 
heart  of  God  ever  framed  in  human  speech,  the 
story — let  us  rename  it — of  the  Forgiving  Father. 

For  the  central  figure  in  this  matchless  story  is 
not  the  wandering  and  wicked  boy,  nor  yet  the 
elder  brother  with  his  correct  and  cold  morality; 
but  the  Father, — patient  with  the  wayward  and 
just  to  the  unforgiving, — he  who  loved  them  both, 
and  who  won  them  both — let  us  believe  it — by  the 
power  of  his  love  to  virtue  and  to  God. 

And  this  is  the  attitude  of  the  Eternal  Father  to- 
ward all  of  his  sinning  and  suffering  children  ac- 
cording to  the  gospel  and  teaching  of  the  Christ.. 


In  the  light  and  hope  of  this  matchless  parable  we 
dismiss  the  dark  dogmas  of  a  false  theology.  We 
will  not  call  any  man  or  woman  lost  while  the 
loving  Father  lives  to  welcome  his  repentant  child. 
Over  the  living  and  over  the  dead  arches  the  bow 
of  promise  because  the  sweetest  and  saintliest  soul 
that  ever  walked  the  way  of  life,  he  who  saw 
farthest  into  the  heart  and  nature  of  God,  taught  us 
to  trust,  when  all  else  fails,  the  seeking  love  which 
holds,  and  guides,  the  Universe  itself. 

No,  we  have  not  exaggerated.  The  light- 
bringing  words  of  Jesus  are  the  dearest  treasures 
of  human  thought. 


THE  HEALING  CHRIST 

^RY  SHEFFER'S  justly  celebrated  painting, 
Christus  Consolator,  in  which  those  who  had 
been  healed  and  blessed  by  the  Master  were 
grouped  about  him,  once  suffered  in  reproduction 
a  serious  mutilation.  With  the  sick  and  sorrowing 
looking  into  Jesus'  face  with  devout  thanksgiving 
there  was  pictured  a  negro  slave  with  his  shackles 
fallen  at  his  feet.  A  certain  northern  missionary 
society  in  the  old  slave  days  desiring  to  use  this  pic- 
ture as  frontispiece  to  a  new  prayer  book,  and  fear- 
ing to  offend  Southern  brethren,  actually  inserted 
a  copy  of  Christus  Consolator  with  the  liberated 
slave  left  out.  This  book  is  sometimes  exhibited  as 
illustration  of  the  effect  of  fear  and  prejudice  upon 
presumably  good  men. 

In  imitation  of  these  timid  disciples  I  imagine  a 
rationalist  writing  of  Jesus  would,  a  few  years  ago, 
have  "left  out"  all  consideration  of  the  so-called 
miracles  of  healing.  Now  no  true  rationalist, — 
that  is  a  man  who  fearlessly  faces  all  fact  and  truth 
— can  write  of  the  gospel  story  and  pass  in  silence 
deeds  of  love  and  pity  which  the  heart  of  the  world 


has  most  tenderly  cherished,  even  when  the  reason 
doubted. 

It  has  long  been  recognized  by  scholars  that, 
after  making  all  allowance  for  that  exaggeration 
which  seems  inseparable  from  faith  illumed  by 
love,  it  is  impossible  to  read  the  words  of  Jesus 
sanely  and  not  come  into  the  presence  of  one  whose 
works  moved  men  to  wonder  and  to  gratitude.  To 
modern  thinking  people,  trained  to  a  superstitious 
reverence  for  pills  and  powders,  it  seems  a  hard 
saying  that  this  man  by  the  divinity  of  his  spirit,  the 
serenity  of  his  soul,  put  the  demons  of  terror  and 
disease  to  flight.  Yet  here  our  unbelief  may  come 
of  our  ignorance — not  of  our  knowledge.  There  is 
no  deliverance  for  man  from  any  ill  save  through 
the  power  of  mind.  The  mind  of  man  pioneers  the 
way  to  every  good.  By  its  power  we  are  fed,  and 
warmed,  and  clothed.  By  its  wisdom  we  are 
guided  in  sickness  and  in  health.  The  mind  links 
us  to  the  universal  spirit  and  makes  us  to  be  a  part 
of  the  universal  life.  What  wonder  if  the  mind,  the 
soul  of  man,  in  superior  development,  should  act 
directly  upon  the  body,  stilling  the  pulse  of  pain, 
purifying  the  blood,  energizing  the  life  forces,  thus 
lifting  diseased  and  despairing  humanity  to  hope 
and  health. 


At  the  dawn  of  the  twentieth  century  the  fair 
minded  must  admit  all  this  is  possible,  while  the 
good  of  heart  must  rejoice  that  evidence  is  massing, 
daily  demonstrating  that  mind  is  sovereign  even  in 
the  lazar-house  of  disease  and  suffering.  So  we 
read  the  old,  old  story  in  the  light  of  a  new  and 
beautiful  faith.  It  matters  not  if  this  or  that  seem- 
ingly miraculous  event  be  susceptible  of  proof,  the 
fundamental  fact  is  susceptible  of  abundant  proof, 
proof  amounting  to  absolute  demonstration,  namely 
this :  that  within  the  mind  of  man  are  powers  un- 
realized, which  once  developed  and  controlled,  will 
rid  the  world  of  those  dread  scourges  which  scar 
the  earth  with  untimely  graves.  Of  this  the 
gracious  deeds  of  Jesus  are  radiant  proof. 

In  loving  imagination  we  follow  the  Master  as 
he  enters  the  chamber  of  suffering.  How  fear,  like 
some  dark  shadow  driven  before  the  face  of  the  sun, 
is  lifted  as  he  draws  near.  He  is  so  wise,  and  calm, 
and  strong,  it  seems  a  little  thing  that  pain  should 
flee  his  presence.  In  the  faded  eyes  there  is  hope, 
in  the  weak  limbs  strength;  the  obedient  body 
answers  to  its  master,  the  mind  conscious  of  health, 
and  the  power  to  impart  that  consciousness  to 
another;  and  so  if  he  tells  us  to  "take  up  our  bed 
and  walk,"  the  very  bed  upon  which  we  have 
passed  so  many  dreadful  days,  why  it  were  easy, 


and  here  is  no  greater  miracle  than  that  the  sun 
should  draw  the  lily  toward  itself  and  paint  it  white 
and  gold.  Nay  rather  here  is  promise  of  what  our 
race  will  be  when  the  purposes  of  the  Creator  are 
fulfilled.  What  if  disease,  and  the  liability  to 
disease,  is  but  a  stage  in  the  evolution  of  man  ?  Man 
walked  on  all  fours  once,  if  science  reads  the  past 
aright.  We  walk  somewhat  more  erect  these  days, 
but  under  heavy  burdens.  Suppose  we  throw  aside 
the  burden  and  demand  health  as  our  birth-right 
from  God. 

Not  that  we  may  disobey  the  laws  of  life  and 
escape  due  consequence,  but  rather  that  we  may 
fulfill  all  the  laws  of  mental  and  physical  being 
and  come  into  our  rightful  inheritance;  come 
also  into  that  gracious  sympathy  with  others'  woes 
which  is  itself  the  healer's  divine  secret;  for  love 
is  the  cure  of  many  ills  the  flesh  is  heir  to,  if  it  were 
wise  as  it  is  strong. 


I 


THE  SUFFERING  CHRIST 

3  ONCE  HEARD  an  earnest  radical  say,  'That  it 
would  have  been  better  for  the  world  if  Jesus  had 
lived  thirty  years  longer,  and  far  better  if  he  had 
died  a  natural  death."  When  called  in  question  for 
this  statement  he  made  defense  to  the  effect,  'That 
it  is  the  life  that  counts,  not  the  event  or  manner  of 
death."  Thus  did  this  narrow-minded  liberal  knife 
the  truth  with  a  proverb.  As  a  current  saying  it  is 
true  enough  "that  the  death  matters  little;  it  is  the 
life  that  counts,"  but  often  it  happens  that  a 
glorious  and  heroic  death  is  the  only  fitting  cul- 
mination to  a  consecrated  life.  Words  that  were 
weak  and  local  are  winged  by  martyrdom  for  uni- 
versal conquest,  and  deeds  otherwise  forgotten  in 
a  day  are  rendered  immortal  by  dauntless  dying. 
It  was  said  of  John  Brown — fanatic  though  he  was 
— that  he  made  the  gallows  as  glorious  as  the  cross, 
and  it  may  be  said  that  nothing  he  ever  did  so  re- 
vealed the  greatness  of  his  soul  as  the  sweet  dignity 
of  his  death.  We  forgive  poor  Robert  Emmet  his 
foolhardy  attempt  to  free  Ireland  with  a  hundred 
men,  and  remember  only  that  he  never  flinched 


when  his  hour  came,  but,  boy  as  he  was,  met  death 
like  a  hero.  Tyranny  might  well  laugh  at  the  in- 
surrection of  Robert  Emmet  and  tremble  at  the 
manner  of  his  death,  for  so  dying  he  became  a  force 
moving  the  hearts  of  men  to  ceaseless  struggle  for 
liberty.  Manifestly  it  is  the  death  that  counts — as 
well  as  the  life — when  the  reformer  faces  a  careless, 
stupid,  cruel  generation;  a  world  of  men  whose 
hands  must  shed  blood  ere  their  hearts  can  be 
softened. 

And  so  I  declare — thoughtfully,  as  one  who 
weighs  his  words — that  Infinite  Wisdom  could 
scarcely  have  decreed  a  death  for  Jesus  of  Nazareth 
so  certain  to  enthrone  him  in  the  affections  of  the 
race  as  the  crucifixion  he  suffered  under  Pontius 
Pilate.  Painful  the  death  and  bitter  the  cup,  cruel 
the  scourge,  and  heavy  the  cross,  but  he  was  blessed 
in  it  all,  for  Gethsemane  and  Calvary  were  at  the 
Summit  of  an  Ascending  Life,  and  as  one  has  writ- 
ten, it  were  worth  a  dozen  crucifixions  to  so  move 
the  world. 

There  is  evidence,  too,  that  Jesus  labored  as  one 
consciously  doomed  to  an  early  death.  "We  must 
work  while  it  is  day,"  he  said,  "for  the  night  cometh 
soon."  The  Age  seemed  to  know  that  it  was  not 
worthy  so  benign  a  presence,  and  those  who  loved 
him  listened  to  his  words  as  to  one  whose  voice  they 


might  never  hear  again,  and  the  sick  thronged  his 
path  as  to  a  healer  who  might  not  pass  their  way 
but  once.  It  was  his  habit  to  speak  of  "his  hour," 
and  so  speaking  Jesus  gave  proof  that  he  carried 
the  coolest  head  as  well  as  the  warmest  heart  in 
Palestine.  He  will  die  at  the  right  time  and  in  the 
right  place  for  his  cause's  sake.  Herod,  "the  Fox," 
nor  yet  the  clamoring  people,  can  hurry  the  God- 
commissioned  man.  The  victorious  general  plans 
the  last  charge  at  the  right  moment,  so  will  "he  go 
up  to  Jerusalem  in  the  fulness  of  time." 

And  with  his  face  steadily  set  toward  the  city  of 
his  fathers,  he  will  calmly  say, — "And  I,  if  I  be 
lifted  up,  will  draw  all  men  unto  me."  How  well 
he  knows  man,  and  the  motives  that  move  the  heart 
of  man.  There  is  a  divine  compulsion  in  suffering 
goodness  which  nothing  can  resist.  Men  will  for- 
ever read  his  story  in  the  light  that  "streams  from 
the  cross," — a  light  shedding  heavenly  radiance 
upon  words  and  deeds,  memorable  and  beautiful. 

Traditional  theologians  preach  the  gospel  of  the 
cross  as  revealing  man's  sin  and  God's  love.  True, 
dropping  scholastic  terms,  for  virtue  shone  like  a 
star  and  vice  groveled  like  a  monster  on  that  cruci- 
fixion day.  Surely  the  "thoughts  of  men's  hearts 
were  revealed,"  as  the  prophet  had  spoken.  The 
mask  falls  from  the  hard  face  of  the  Pharisee.    We 


see  him  as  he  is,  cold,  crafty,  cruel.  The  Sadducee, 
man  of  the  world,  would  crucify  the  innocent,  if  so 
be  it  the  powers  are  pleased.  Pilate,  ambitious  and 
tricky  politician,  stands  forth  true  to  the  instincts 
of  his  class.  Judas,  the  false  friend,  and  Peter,  the 
boasting  disciple,  first  to  offer  defense,  and  first  to 
flee  a  lost  cause,  and  the  Soldier,  obeying  orders 
that  discipline  be  maintained  though  he  drive  a 
spike  through  the  hand  of  God,  and  the  timid  mul- 
titude, hardly  ceasing  to  cry  "Hallelujahs"  as  they 
scurry  to  cover  at  the  first  sign  of  danger, — "They 
all  forsook  him  and  fled,"  is  the  simple  statement 
of  the  unending  tragedy  of  reform.  The  People, 
the  Dear  People,  they  are  invariably  true  and  brave 
— after  the  martyr  is  dead. 

And  in  the  midst  of  all — ^Jesus. 

"But  Thee,  but  Thee,  O  Sovereign  Seer  of  time. 
But  Thee,  O  poets'  poet,  Wisdom's  Tongue, 
But  Thee,  O  man's  best  man,  O  love's  best  love, 
O  perfect  life  in  perfect  labor  writ, 
O  all  men's  comrade.  Servant,  King,  or  Priest — 
What  if  or  yet,  what  mole,  what  flaw,  what  lapse, 
What  least  defect  or  shadow  of  defect. 
What  rumor  tattled  by  an  enemy, 
Of  inference  loose,  what  lack  of  grace, 
Even  in  torture's  grasp,  or  sleep's,  or  death's — 
Oh !  what  amiss  may  1  forgive  in  thee, 
Jesus,  good  Paragon,  thou  Crystal  Christ?" 

Thus,  Sidney  Lanier,  and  wisely,  for  what  flaw, 
what  lapse,  what  defect,  or  shadow  of  defect,  do 


those  last  dread  hours  disclose?  Out  in  the  fields 
of  Galilee,  and  under  the  open  sky,  Jesus  has  talked 
of  a  God  who  cares  for  man, — ^yea,  for  the  sparrow, 
— but  what  will  he  say  now,  this  Peasant  before  the 
judgment  seat  of  Pilate.  "Thou  would'st  have  no 
power  over  me  at  all  except  it  were  given  thee  from 
above."  Ah!  it  is  the  same  dear  gospel.  In  the 
hour  of  trial  and  defeat  his  faith  is  unclouded. 

Surrounded  by  his  friends  he  has  preached  non- 
resistance.  In  the  hands  of  his  enemies,  the  scourg- 
ing and  the  cross  so  near  that  he  walked  as  one 
already  in  the  throes  of  death,  he  bids  the  would-be 
defender, — "Put  up  thy  sword.  They  that  take  the 
sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword," 

When  the  days  were  bright,  and  men  thronged 
his  path,  he  spoke  often  of  submission  to  the  Will 
of  God.  So  have  multitudes  who  later  in  distress 
have  been  ready  to  "curse  God  and  die."  From  the 
depths  of  Gethsemane's  darkness  is  heard  the  cry, 
— "Father,  not  my  will  but  thine  be  done."  And 
we  are  satisfied.  This  man  will  not  fail  us.  No, 
not  if  they  leave  him  to  die,  mocked  by  his  enemies 
and  deserted  by  his  friends. 

Once  he  told  us  "to  forgive,  until  seventy  times 
seven."  Strange  teaching!  Will  he  be  true  to  it 
himself  when  wrongfully  led  "as  a  lamb  to  the 
slaughter?"     How  he   might  have   startled  the 


world  with  judgment  pronounced  from  the  height 
of  his  cross  upon  his  judicial  murder,  contrary  to 
both  Jewish  and  Roman  law.  Thank  Heaven,  it  is 
the  same  gospel  we  heard  in  sunny  Galilee. 
^'Father,  forgive  them,  they  know  not  what  they 
do."  These  words  appeal  to  both  mind  and  heart. 
^They  know  not  what  they  do."  Did  any  man  ever 
fully  realize  the  consequences  of  his  own  wrong- 
doing when  temptation  had  its  way  with  him?  Is 
this  not  a  universal  prayer  covering  your  sin  and 
mine?  "Father,  forgive — they  know  not  what  they 
do." 

Speaking  as  never  man  spake  before,  in  sermon 
and  parable,  he  taught  his  disciples  to  call,  God, — 
Father.  Does  that  faith  hold  now  in  the  bitterness 
of  death?  If  so  all  is  well.  "Father,  into  thy  hands 
I  commend  my  spirit."  So  would  we,  his  friends 
and  followers,  have  him  ascend  to  "his  Father  and 
our  Father." 

True  to  every  letter  and  line  of  his  own  sweet 
gospel,  he  is  lifted  on  Pilate's  cross  above,  the 
gentlest  and  noblest  of  the  race,  to  abide  to  the  end 
of  time — not  only  our  greatest  teacher — but  he 
whose  faith  in  suffering,  and  whose  love  in  death 
is  the  white  dawn  of  our  peace.  Jesus  is  the 
World's  Ideal.  He  is  the  Christ  of  the  Human 
Heart. 


fesus  antr  tf)e  Mottttn  tSEorlti 

3T  has  long  been  recognized  that  insincerity  is 
not  uncommon  in  matters  pertaining  to  re- 
ligion. Men  have  coined  a  word  to  express,  almost 
in  the  sound  of  it,  the  extreme  of  scorn  for  falseness 
in  the  religious  life.  Hypocrite — this  word,  of 
Greek  origin,  is  older  than  Christianity;  doubtless 
some  word  of  similar  import  is  as  old  as  the  altars 
at  which  men  have  worshipped  with  simulated 
piety.  The  hideousness  of  conscious  falsehood  is 
felt  and  condemned,  but  it  is  by  no  means  so  clearly 
seen  that  a  comparatively  innocent  insincerity — 
innocent  so  far  as  vicious  intent  is  concerned — per- 
vades as  subtle  poison  the  religious  world  of  today. 
In  a  kind  of  mental  indolence,  custom  is  placed  be- 
fore principle  and  sentiment  before  truth. 

This  false  and  fatal  attitude  is  most  apparent  in 
the  professed  homage  of  Jesus  in  the  modern  world 
and  the  constant  and  flagrant  disregard  of  his 
plainest  teachings.  Seventy  years  ago  Emerson  said: 
^'Historical  Christianity  clings  with  noxious  exag- 
geration about  the  person  of  Jesus."  This  large 
worship  of  the  name  and  person  of  Jesus  was  never 


more  marked  than  now.  If  Jesus  were  to  return 
to  the  churches  of  to-day  we  can  imagine  that  he 
would  listen  to  the  hymns,  prayers  and  sermons, 
and  in  the  bitterness  of  sorrow  exclaim :  ^ 'Why  call 
ye  me  Lord,  Lord,  and  do  not  the  things  that  I 
say?" 

How  can  we  explain  this  mystery  of  unveracity? 
Is  it  not  because  of  a  conviction — of  which  perhaps 
we  are  only  half  conscious — that  the  teachings  of 
Jesus  are  not  applicable  to  modern  life?  Beautiful 
as  abstract  sentiments,  fine  enough  for  Sunday 
theorizing,  we  seem  to  feel  that  they  are  out  of 
place  in  the  field  of  practical  ethics. 

This  conviction  is  an  error.  Civilization  re- 
quires and  society  demands  for  security,  constant 
and  sincere  application  of  the  teachings  of  Jesus 
to  the  life  of  the  people. 

It  is  of  prime  importance  that  we  understand 
clearly  that  the  tendencies  of  civilization  are  not  all 
good,  that  some  of  them  are  distinctly  and  distress- 
ingly bad.  Moreover,  civilization  seems  to  carry 
within  itself  the  forces  that  may  yet  destroy  all  this 
fair  fabric  of  modern  society,  for  in  society,  as  in 
nature,  the  forces  that  give  life  also  condemn  to 
death;  the  forces  that  build  destroy.  Unless  a 
higher  force,  a  diviner  law,  can  become  dominant, 
one  can  pronounce,  in  the  light  of  history,  the  end 


of  civilization.  At  just  these  danger  points,  just 
where  civilization  is  weakest,  the  teachings  of  Jesus 
are  strength  and  safety. 

Consider  first  how  civilization  intensifies  the 
passions  and  quickens  the  appetites.  The  savage 
man  is  calmed  and  disciplined  by  nature.  Moun- 
tain and  forest,  river  and  plain,  teach  him  sobriety. 
The  hard  necessities  of  life  shield  him  from 
more  than  occasional  over-indulgence.  Civilization 
means  first,  abundance,  then  luxury  and  finally  de- 
generacy. Drunkard  making  and  harlotry  are 
monster  vices  of  civilization,  not  of  savagery.  Over 
against  this  we  place  Jesus'  doctrine  of  purity,  of 
personal  chastity,  as  sweet  and  severe  for  man  as  for 
woman.  Where  can  we  find  safety  from  the  vices 
that  threaten  to  destroy,  save  in  this  Christian  gos- 
pel of  cleanness  in  heart  and  life? 

Note  again  that  civilization  develops  class  con- 
ditions, class  strife,  class  hatreds,  and  this  appar- 
ently by  inevitable  law.  An  aristocracy  cold  and 
cruel,  a  populace  wronged  and  envious,  these  seem 
the  natural  result  of  advanced  civilization.  Al- 
ready it  is  taught  in  high  places  that  the  honored 
maxim  of  simpler  days,  ^'The  greatest  good  to  the 
greatest  number,"  is  vicious,  producing  a  coddled, 
pitiful,  weak  and  low-minded  race.  The  doctrine 
of  equality  is  said  to  be  poison,  and  we  are  told  that 


we  ought  not  even  to  try  to  make  the  unequal  equal. 
To  an  alarming  extent  this  is  the  working  theory  of 
the  world  today.  It  will  result,  as  in  all  the  past,  in 
an  aristocracy  dying  of  its  own  vices  and  in  a  popu- 
lace submerged  in  its  own  brutality.  What  can 
save  us?  Jesus'  divine  doctrine  of  the  brotherhood 
of  man ;  nothing  else  and  nothing  less.  With  this 
society  demands  for  its  stability  the  abolition  of 
war,  the  realization  of  the  Master's  kingdom  of 
peace  and  good-will  among  men. 

Once  more,  and  the  thought  is  sobering,  civili- 
zation tends  in  no  slight  degree  actually  to  increase 
the  sorrows  of  life.  By  so  much  as  the  civilized 
man  is  refined,  by  so  much  is  he  made  more  sensi- 
tive to  the  evils  of  existence.  Between  the  savage 
mother  bearing  many  children  for  whom  she  cares 
only  in  infancy  and  the  civilized  mother  of  a  few 
children  for  whom  she  cares  with  lifelong  devotion 
there  may  be  all  the  difference  of  a  sorrow  that 
passes  with  the  seasons  and  a  sorrow  that  ends  in 
despair. 

Refine  the  sensibilities,  develop  the  affections, 
and  you  plunge  man  in  deeper  distress  unless  there 
is  for  him  a  gospel  of  comfort  and  of  love.  Never 
was  the  vast  hope  which  breathes  in  the  words  of 
Jesus  more  necessary  to  the  health  and  sanity  of 
the   race.    We  need  his  unfaltering  trust  in  God, 


his  unwavering  confidence  in  the  tearless  land  be- 
yond death ;  we  need  the  sweetness  and  radiance  of 
his  faith  in  man  and  truth.  Because  of  these 
things  we  may  declare  with  the  German  philoso- 
pher, Fichte,  that  "To  the  end  of  time  sensible  men 
will  bow  low  before  this  Jesus  of  Nazareth." 


/^IpO  the  great  majority  of  those  who  still  observe 
^^  Christmas  as  a  religious  festival,  it  is  a  day  of 
tender  reminiscence.  The  devout  imagination  re- 
creates the  scenes  of  long  ago.  Nazareth  becomes 
as  real  as  our  childhood's  home.  The  gentle 
mother,  the  helpless  babe,  the  adoring  shepherds, 
the  singing  angels,  the  heavenly  voices  proclaiming 
^Teace  on  earth,  good  will  toward  men" — all  these 
on  Christmas  day  are  as  sounds  and  scenes  we  have 
ourselves  heard  and  witnessed.  Very  real,  then, 
are  all  the  gracious  days  and  deeds  of  Jesus'  life 
from  manger-cradle  to  the  cross. 

In  former  time,  when  men  more  loyally  believed 
the  gospel  story,  when  myth  and  miracle  provoked 
no  harsh  denial,  the  saints  fancied  that  in  Christmas 
vision  they  saw  the  Christ  and  heard  the  music  of 
his  speech.  Some  dim  radiance  of  that  vision  yet 
abides.  For  on  Christmas  day  his  story  is  told  in 
all  the  earth,  his  praises  sung  in  all  lands.  And 
thousands  who  know  him  not — or  who  believe  not 
— do  yet  live  out  his  teaching  in  deeds  of  love  and 
charity. 


More  than  this,  congregations  of  mistaken  men 
will  worship  at  his  shrine  who  are  not  obedient  to 
the  truth  he  taught.  Nations  at  war  will  lift,  as  it 
were,  bloody  hands  in  prayer  to  him  who  said, 
^'Love  your  enemies.  Do  good  to  those  that  hate 
you."  A  society  based  upon  the  so-called  scientific 
principle  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest — that  is, 
strongest — ^will  this  day  pay  formal  reverence  to 
One  who  loved  most  where  the  need  was  sorest,  and 
who  said,  "It  is  not  the  will  of  your  Father  that  one 
of  these  little  ones  should  perish."  This  is  the 
Christian  paradox,  that  startling  inconsistency 
which  leads  many  to  declare  that  our  civilization  is 
not  civilized,  that  our  Christianity  is  not  Christian. 

Is  there  explanation  for  conduct  so  at  variance 
with  common  honesty  and  common  sense?  To  my 
thought,  yes.  And  that  explanation  is  found  in  the 
fact  that  Christmas  is  the  world's  prophetic  day. 
Christmas  looks  not  so  much  backward  as  forward. 
It  is  not  so  much  of  the  present  as  of  the  future.  It 
belongs  to  an  order  of  the  world  not  yet  attained; 
to  a  Christianity  not  yet  realized;  to  a  coming,  but 
perhaps  distant,  kingdom  of  brotherhood  among 
nations  and  men.  Christmas  is  a  prophecy  of  what 
all  days  will  be. 

One  day  we  consecrate  to  unselfish  love ;  to  mak- 
ing others  happy.    We  give  ourselves  no  end  of 


trouble  that  the  child  may  have  his  toy,  the  friend 
some  token  of  our  regard.  We  strive  in  the  very 
spirit  and  method  of  Jesus,  though  we  know  it  not, 
to  increase  the  joy  of  the  world.  We  feed  the  hun- 
gry and  clothe  the  naked.  We  remember  the  sick 
and  sad  of  heart,  and  if  we  could  we  would  bring 
Christmas  cheer  to  the  weakest  and  the  worst. 
Some  rays  of  Christmas  charity  fall  within  the 
prisoner's  lonely  cell,  and  penetrate  the  darkness  of 
city  slums.  We  have  no  heart  to  smite,  to  harm; 
the  cruel  word  or  deed  is  not  for  us,  for  the  Christ 
love  is  law  of  life  one  day  in  all  the  year. 

Christmas  is  a  day  of  the  heart  and  the  home. 
The  careworn  son  of  toil,  who  in  life's  losing  battle 
may  have  regretted  that  young  lips  ever  named  him 
"father,"  this  day  is  happy  in  the  laughter  of  his 
children.  The  overburdened  mother,  who  knows 
all  the  grief  of  weariness  and  want,  is  this  day  lifted 
for  a  few  bright  hours  into  at  least  the  semblance 
of  joy. 

Husband  and  wife,  too  often  living  in  self-im- 
posed slavery,  striving  for  the  riches  that  perish, 
and  forgetting  that  love  is  the  sunshine  of  life,  may 
this  blessed  day  renew  the  old  endearments  and  find 
within  a  humble  home  a  palace  of  delight.  Sister 
and  brother,  friend  and  neighbor,  give  to  each 


other  a  kindlier  greeting,  and  the  living  draw  sac- 
redly near  to  the  dead  upon  this  day  of  the  soul. 

O  day  of  heart,  we  welcome  thee !  O  day  of  the 
home,  we  rejoice  in  thy  light!  Come,  rich  with  the 
gifts  of  love,  with  the  offerings  of  pity,  with  the 
consolations  of  faith. 

But  why  live  one  day  by  the  law  of  love  and 
many  days  by  the  law  of  strife?  Why  not  live  ever 
in  the  Christmas  spirit?  If  brotherhood  is  so  good, 
so  in  accord  with  the  Master's  lofty  faith,  why  not 
dwell  together  as  brothers  while  the  years  speed 
on?  And  if  we  are  alone  blessed  in  promoting  the 
good  of  others,  why  not  act  evermore  above  the 
range  of  those  "miserable  aims  that  end  in  self." 
Jesus  is  eternally  right.  Love  is  better  than  hate, 
and  to  give  is  better  than  to  receive.  The  surrender 
of  selfish  desires  is  the  beginning  of  life. 

Will  this  faith  yet  conquer  the  world?  Assur- 
edly. Love  is  not  only  better  than  hate — it  is 
stronger.  Peace  is  not  only  happier  than  war — it  is 
nobler.  And  to  help  our  brother  on  the  rough  way 
of  life  is  wiser  than  to  trample  him  into  the  dust. 
The  precepts  of  Christ's  Christianity  are  beyond 
the  mutations  of  time.  The  influence  of  his  holy 
life  is  an  unspent  force  destined  to  command  the 
ages. 


Much  that  we  prize  may  fail  us,  but  the  joy  and 
strength  of  his  unclouded  faith  in  God  and  man 
shall  abide — the  day  star  of  progress  while  the 
world  endures.  Of  Jesus'  final  victory  Christmas 
is  prophetic. 


A  CHRISTMAS  PARABLE 


/f\NE  Christmas  morning  long  ago  there  seemed 
to  stand  beside  my  bed  a  tall  and  stately  Angel. 
Seeing  clearly  the  beautiful,  the  kindly  radiant 
face,  I  was  not  afraid.  ^'Comel^  said  the  Angel, 
''and  I  will  show  you  a  world  where  Christmas  joy 
is  unclouded  by  the  wrongs  and  woes  of  earthly 
life.'' 

A  moment's  space,  and  swiftly,  yet  without 
weariness,  we  were  passing  through  the  streets  of  a 
great  city.  The  Angel  must  have  touched  my  eyes, 
thus  granting  me  new  range  of  vision,  for  nothing 
was  hidden  from  our  view;  yet  I  saw  not  upon  the 
right  hand  or  the  left  the  hovels  of  the  poor.  ''Is 
there  no  poverty  in  this  great  city?"  I  asked.  With 
a  smile,  reflecting  something  of  Heaven  in  its 
beauty,  the  Angel  replied — "Poverty  was  abolished 
long  ago.  It  was  a  foul  evil,  the  parent  of  many  a 
crime.  In  this  good  commonwealth  it  is  unknown." 
At  this  I  felt  a  new  and  strange  delight,  for  never 
yet  a  Christmas  day,  but  some  shadow  of  the 
world's  dark  want  had  fallen  across  my  path. 


I  looked  again,  and  yet  again ,  on  either  side  the 
well-kept  streets  for  the  gaudy  fronts  of  Palaces  of 
Vice.  Not  seeing  these,  I  asked, — ^^Are  there  here 
no  dens  of  infamy,  no  soul-destroying  haunts  of 
drunkenness  and  crime?^'  I  thought  in  look  and 
voice  I  detected  faint  trace  of  impatience,  as  in  one 
who  recalls  unwillingly  dark  deeds  long  forgotten. 
*'In  all  our  city  not  one.  These  belonged  to  the  sav- 
age age  of  man.  Progress  swept  the  last  of  them 
away  generations  ago  J* 

Wondering,  and  almost  in  excess  of  joy  at 
thought  of  deliverance  for  my  race  so  great  and 
blessed,  I  began  to  study  the  faces  of  men,  women 
and  children  in  the  multitude  about  me.  What  a 
revelation!  Innocence!  I  had  fancied  I  knew  the 
meaning  of  that  word — but  the  cherub  faces  of 
these  children  gave  to  the  dear  old  word  new 
beauty.  I  have  heard  men  call  the  human  form 
and  face  divine,  and  so  they  are  when  life  has 
known  no  taint  of  poverty  or  sin.  How  long  I 
gazed,  enraptured,  into  eyes  that  bore  no  evidence 
of  care  or  sorrow,  I  know  not;  but,  at  length,  a 
couple  in  serene  old  age,  stood  before  me.  Sur- 
prise forced  yet  one  more  question  to  my  lips,  for 
such  sweet  peace  I  had  never  seen  reflected  from 
face  of  man  or  woman.  Doubting — fearing  that 
the  answer  might  bring  me  pain,  I  asked,  ^^Is  there 


no  death  in  all  this  goodly  city,  no  heart  or  home 
where  Christmas  joy  is  but  a  mockery?^^ 

^^No  death/^  said  the  Angel,  ^^as  you  are  wont  to 
think  of  death.  True,  in  the  fulness  of  years,  men 
pass  painlessly  into  the  higher  life;  but  God^s 
Heaven  is  so  near  a  sinless  world  that  the  ascended 
ones  seem  always  near  us,  and  we  wait  in  gladness 
of  faith  our  own  departure/' 

I  do  not  understand  the  cause  of  a  certain  faint- 
ness  which  overcame  me  as  the  Angel  thus  made 
gracious  answer  to  my  eager  question.  Perhaps 
the  revelation  was  too  great  for  mortal  strength,  I 
heard  the  Angel  gently  whisper, — *^It  is  enough/' 
then  came  a  strange  sensation  as  of  falling  from 
some  lofty  eminence,  and  I — awoke. 

I  have  pondered  long  upon  this  dream.  Was  it, 
indeed,  a  dream?  Or  was  it  a  vision  and  a  pro- 
phecy? 


The  Blair-Murdock  Co. 
San  Francisco 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


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